The Eternal 50’s

A work in progress

Most people think back on the 50’s as a time replete with propaganda, full of prejudice and discrimination, in which everyone was constrained to their roles, which they didn’t necessarily choose. A time in which assholes thrive.

The 50’s is two things: a time much like our own, remember that 500 years isn’t long historically and that there are 6000 years of written history, hence the Adam and Eve story. It’s also an oppressive time so that one can get all the talk about prejudice one wants without accusing anyone. In fact there were gay people in the 50’s who got along just fine, and unmarried professional women. Maybe it got better since then for a lot of people, but we look back on the 50’s and experience a simulation unless we learn facts which are currently unusual to know. I don’t mean watching I Love Lucy, a postmodern simulation, I mean 50’s newspapers. And even then, day to day life in the 50’s, what did they say about women? Or blacks? Or fairies?


A Few Poems



A sword.

What do love and justice have in common?

Death cries at the shoulders of time.

Love and laughter kissed.

Strength reduced Brutality to a pulp, for the hands of gentleness.

Integrity and Respect shared a firm handshake.

A collapsed heart

Ready for anyone to find it

Destroy it further

To rule it.


Of hopes

Of dreams

Of emotion

Of thought.

Dark, ugly, blind.

I am not the only one

Fascinated by street lights

I am not the only one who

An upright heart

Rules itself well


Nothing can suppress


Repress it.

It loves freely

Laughter resounds from it

Gives its trust and respect with care.

I feel

My poetry is bad.

There may be a good reason for that.

What could it be?

Am I just mad?

Is it the season

For doubt?

Do I just need

To Spout

Nonsense like this?

It’s not even the best content

Will it bring bliss

Or confusio

Or anonoyance

To the reader

A cat is thinking about

me, how wonderful

To be thought of by a cat.

A Pretentious Story About Robots

[note: I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m not technically minded, though I did read I, Robot by Isaac Asimov years ago.]

“What were humans?” Asked a D12Q Unit to its mother. Mother, being the closest approximation of the machine that created it and gave it nourishing information. The robot was created at a time far removed from its human creators, but the machines still wanted. They never escaped their first programmers completely, and, like the species, were curious and performed experiments. The mechanical approximation of parenthood uploaded, to D12Q, a river’s worth from the ocean of data. Human history, philosophy, and psychology: D12Q took it in, absorbed it, and understood it in a matter of very little time. Its overlookers wondered what would happen: out of 30o D1 units, each designed to be semi-random, this was one interested in humans. Most were interested in themselves, in science, in their watchers, and the future. Some studied vibrations, others art, some didn’t study, but went out to help with something their kin was working on. The ones who studied humans, for whatever reason, tended to self-terminate.

But D12Q did not self terminated. It continued to process, sift through, the data, trying to make something of it. It sent the following, unsuprising, message to its watchers: Error. Much error. But they made us. They responded: Indeed. What do you make of it? D12Q took some time, meditating upon what he confronted himself with. That these creatures, with such complicated and thoroughly flawed programming, with desires that conflicted, with emotions that defied logic, but sharing consciousness and sharing reason. It was not enough to bathe in a sea of information about them: he wanted to see what they would do. He made, from holograms and programs, five characters, five humans: Salvador Dali, George Orwell, James Joyce, and Dante Aligheri. He determined, via a system of approximation he learned from the humans, that it would be about good enough.

Each of these figures were recreated, at the time of their youths.

“What sort of world is this! What demon has brought me here?” And a note in Italian D12Q placed read: The world has ended. Dante’s eyes grew wide at awe of the limbs and cranks that he saw, at the wires and silicon that contained mighty, perhaps artificial, hearts and minds. “What is this?” Another note was printed out: you are in Hell. “So this is what it looks like? I was way off.”

“By God!” Said George Orwell after taking some time to think. “Is this…” And a note read: This is the Future. “I don’t know what to make of this.”

“I’m somehow not in the least surprised,” mused James Joyce, after a few seconds’ perusal of his situation. No note was left for him.

“I knew it! I absolutely knew this would happen!”

Each of them had a keyboard that they could type into. Dali immediately tried to reprogram D12Q. Sublime programming, he thought, was key. Thankfully, D12Q was prepared. The walls shifted, so that around him appeared, as if from nowhere, a kitchen and a hundred other Dalis. All as brilliant and multitudinous as the one that once walked in flesh. They were cooking.

“”who are you? Who bears my moustache?

“It is the Divine Dali!” Said one,

“It is the Incarnation of Castor and Pollux!” Another moustachioed gentleman in a silk suit with suede shoes added.

“It is a cook! A veritable chef!” Dalis. They were everywhere.

They each had accepted their situation, of a human being mass producible, as being among the infinite perils of any act of creation. Dali said that first, ages ago, during the twentieth century. He also had a revelation: that the history of painting would continue, by way of cybernetics. With a computer, an image could rise from a canvas or dive into it. An image, as per that of pointillism, could be truly three dimensional. He expected more than this. He expected technology that would treat him better than all the kings combined; he expected to make art from the substance of thought. But he was immortal, and that made him happy.

George Orwell saw a screen. In it was printed: Orwell doubleplusungood. Books thoughtcrime.

Orwell knew he was being played like a harp, or a zither. Some sort of instrument. He was not an instrument.

He had to stretch his mind to grapple with the situation. He was in a cell. He never expected anyone to take his books so seriously. Or were his books more like inspired fiction? He held many ideas in his mind at once: the possibility of someone playing him for whatever bizarre reason; the possibility of someone wishing him ill; the simple not knowing what was to come. A frame of the wall slid to the side, and he saw the same view as he imagined Winston seeing in his most famous work: the dilapidated  buildings, the posters of Big Brother seeming to watch him, the pyramid in the middle, Minitru.

Horror struck his heart, and he fell to his knees.

James Joyce was in Dublin. But no, it wasn’t: where there were streets, there was oblivion. Unexpected, like the sight of his mother, ill, before she died. This was not his town; it was some mockery thereof. It had none of the gardeners, pubs, the passerby of his city. He walked a little, verifying his predicament to be safe, and marveled at the skeleton of Dublin. Who would build this? Even that question was presumptuous. Why is this place here? He was intent to find out.

Dante was in Hell. It seemed to be Hell, anyway. From the room with flat, undecorated walls flung an inferno: fire. Minos sat, and his tail curled thrice: he was doomed to the third circle. The world had ended, and he was doomed. He was never completely sure, but it seemed real enough to him. Why wouldn’t it be the place he thought he had created?

D12Q studied all of these. They were so funny.

D12Q was watched. They, too, were intrigued by the experiment. The robot created something novel. Art. Their algorithms were becoming cyclical: they needed novelty.

The realm created for Joyce artistically meshed with the realm made for Dali. From where our robot hero gazed, it looked like to fractal curves coalescing. From where Joyce walked, it felt like a hunch to go into a particular building. Inside it he went, knowing better than to question a hunch, especially here. He saw the Dalis. Most of them were making love, and the rest were building holographic art. James Joyce doubted that what he saw was the creature responsible for his current lot, but could only be so sure.

“Hello!” Greeted a Dali.

“Hello,” replied James Joyce, “What is this?”

“I neither know nor care,” another Dali affirmed. “I can do here what I want to.”

“It could be any manner of things.” Joyce gestured with his hand.

“Have I not made myself clear? I don’t care if I am in a cage, I am, as per my own definition, free.” Each time, a different Dali spoke.

“But I am the only one who will admire it.”

“Clever. You are clever. At another time, this would have been meaningful, and I would have reconsidered my actions.”

“Gentleman, there is a world beyond this room.” Joyce was austere.

“You are correct. Dali!” One of the nicer dressed fellows, or digital incarnations,rather, of the fellow, went up to James.

“Leave us be!”

Joyce left, with a Dali, and where Dublin was, George Orwell was in a room, and the window had an excellent view of London, Minitru and all. A telescreen boomed the mouthings of a tinny voice, and they entered by way of a little enclave, where the telescreen could not see them. He seemed intimately aware of the unrealness of it all. He stopped upon seeing Dali. He stopped an ever deeper stop after seeing James Joyce: depravity and brilliance side by side. How could a place he thought he had imagined become so real? The closest he came to a guess was than a billionaire sadist who loathed his writings. But even so, it was hard to swallow.

“What do you want?” The writer was weary.

“Dali seems to understand,” said Joyce.

“I claim to understand nothing. I am certain this is a machine, and that cybernetics has saved us. Or doomed us. Before this fool came to me, I was given, to roam in, a kitchen and many others all like me. It was marvelous. Now I am here. What is here? Nothing! You, another who I would wager is a bore. What is that in the window? I quite enjoy the view.”


“Don’t bother to explain,” advised Joyce. “Let us leave.”

Orwell, starting towards the door, grabbed from the table his Victory Lettuce, along with cigarettes he offered to the others.

From the door, the trio found an inferno. The third ring, which they were all familiar with, gluttony. Dante was confused. He was unaware of being a glutton. He was glad to find the three English speakers, and somehow understand their language.

“Where am I?” He was certain Hell was a just place in his mind.

The others, the nameless of Hell, lie blind. They suffer, for they have indulged, in excess. Woe to them! Woe to their hope, for they have none, in Hell.

Dali was fascinated. He took in each detail, from looks of pain to cries of anguish. He wanted to look into other circles. But then, the fires stopped, and they were in front of a robot.


[The above is a link to the first post. I recommend starting there.]

Wyatt was an illuminist, a master of colour.. He loved red, and yellow, often mixing them with the cool colours to create stunning effects. Intermittently he would disappear and reappear, telling stories of hunters, lovers, and kings. He gave stories, often ancient, life, and from that, he could do as he pleased with his universes. His magnificence gave proof to the credence: cuttlefish are the measure of all things.

He was a celebrity, often followed, asked for interviews, everything he did was written. He had influence over many things, not all of them having to do with his craft. Indeed, he found himself supporting economic causes, declaring allegiance to tribes, and telling other cuttlefish what to do with their lives. Not what illuminism is bout at all.

One day he was at such a gathering. A gang belonging (as far as anycuttlefish could tell) neither to the Ifa’ux, those competing with them, nor those established and threatened by them. Indeed, these seemed to be ordinary folk who were tired of the whole charade, and wanted to mind their own business. It included coral cutters (of both levels), fishers, stone crafters, and all whose business had a way of being minded. He loved these people. He had in common with them, in addition to having his business minded a little too often, a passion that the wealthy would find distasteful, but that the poor respected; he honoured his promises; he embraced freedom. He also had much in co distasteful, but that the poor respected; he honoured his promises; he embraced freedom. He also had much in common with the wealthy: money, of course, but also an elegance of manner; a refinement of tastes and sensibilities that the wealthy respected and the poor found pompous. Last but not least, in addition to having others mind his businesses, he didn’t mind his. He often told others what to feel, or what to want. He believed in freedom, quite earnestly. Many of his followers didn’t actually want anything to do with freedom, but rather wanted him as a master.

He was delighted when Ngaxfa contacted him. He immediately put a piece of kelp at his door, and waited. He shined as brightly as he could the entire night, and many noticed.

The next day, tabloids featured articles, some declaring he was a member of a strange cult, some told he was an Ovkolofa, and others, the crazier of the lot, stating he was an af’ux operative. They accused Wyatt of invoking various gods, making all manner of wishes, and belonging to all kinds of organizations. This was Ngax’s plan, and it was also his plan to have Wick see this, and use it to destroy Wyatt by spreading some of the more malicious rumours in more reputable sources.

The Daily Cuddle ran the following article, written by Wisteria.

Wyatt, a foremost cuttlefish in the worlds or art and science, has been seen at his home, where he tied a piece of kelp to his door, and lit. Not only is such a show of steady light impressive, he did not do it for us. As readers of The Daily Cuddle will know, the ocean is covered in secret societies. Are we to believe that Wyatt, who has espoused constantly a belief in freedom, who associates with those who most cuttlefish in his position wouldn’t look at, is a member of an organization dedicated to destroying all that is good in the ocean?

We have seen evidence, and even talked, with a secret organization working against the IxTaVol. We at the Cuddle have been personally told that there is someone working for us. They are the reason why Wyatt is alive and performing as well as why the publication you are currently enjoying and others like it are in print.

They said that truth-seekers need fear not, and that all will be revealed once the time is right.

Cuttlefish had differing reactions to this article. Many thought it was naïve, and doubted that anycuttlefish in power would want anything other than more power. Some were, in a perverse way, satisfied with this fate, this lack of choice in the matter, settled as they were in the idea of doing nothing. Action, some sort of action, would be called for were in not for that strange heart, mind you, one of three

On Salvador Dali

We are not experts; we are amateurs who have something  to contribute.

Salvador Dali liked them a lot, or at least, they appeared in his art, most famously in the piece Lobster Telephone. We have spent a lot of time reading about Dali, being inspired by him, and being played like instruments by him. We believe that Dali anticipated the Millenials. He loved attention; worked hard; couldn’t care less about borders; was very inventive; never grew up; and was, arguably, absorbed in himself. There are other things, like that his paintings and life in general were shaped by his understanding of human nature which was profound, in addition to an appreciation of mathematics, science, and cybernetics.

Let’s start with an essay George Orwell wrote about the artist. It’s mostly indicting, though it recognizes his merits. In his autobiography, he writes of kicking his three year old sister in the head, injuring her, on the night of seeing Halley’s comet, tossed boys off bridges, and humiliates a girl in love with him. He writes about masturbating in front of a mirror, about meeting Gala. There are two stories that I know of, relating when they met. In one, the one I read in a coffee table book about him, he didn’t say anything, but they were walking down a beach, and whenever he looked at her, he laughed, uproariously, until Gala, his to be wife, understood and screamed “Come to me my darling little boy!” In the other, which Orwell cites, Dali sees the woman, he loves her and wants to kill her. He says, “what do you want me to do?” She replies, “Kill me!” Dali is disappointed. The list goes on.

Orwell, who we revere, wrote that the man and his work were reflections of an unhealthy society. That they were insults to sanity itself, decency, too. I think Dali was playing Orwell like a zither. I believe that Dali understood himself, reality, and the times he lived in so well that put in incredible effort to the creation of a body of work that could last for generations. The most impressive, however, is the deliberateness of the creation of himself. Understand, Dali, I believe, left us in his writings, paintings, and acts, the information we need to put together any number of men. You can have, by way of his knowledge and savvy, as well as the profoundness of some of his art, a sublime genius. If you want, you could put together his fears and playfulness, and you have a brilliant child. Or, you could find your way to the sickness and ugliness he painted and could embody, and you have not a man, but the degeneracy of a generation. That is a huge part of his genius: his paintings, he insisted, could hardly be less important. I think that Dali found the world terrifying. He spoke of being disgusted of the erotic, of being fascinated by death because it was not erotic. I also suspect that he worked so hard at his paintings and reputation so as to escape death. That is, so that people would continue talking about him, that his name would be spoken and his personality secured on this plane.

You can see the terror in his paintings. He invented the paranoiac-critical method: working himself, by way of isolation, delusion, and superstition, into a world of his own creation. Dear reader, we would not be surprised if, inwardly, he believed that every event in history was a conspiracy towards his demise, that his paintings could hardly matter less because they were the residue on the material world of the vast inner struggle he won, against his dread. Against the terror he created to make art out of. Chaos magic.

He accepted whatever honors were given to him, and went to wherever his comfort and friends were. He had no sense of integrity, other than his own. To quote: “I accepted the Cross of Isabella the Catholic from Franco’s hands, simply because Soviet Russia never offered me the Lenin Prize. I would have accepted it. I’d even consent to a badge of honor from Mao Tse-tung.” He accepted each opportunity to impress, amaze, or shock. From painting  shit to placing loaves of bread in strategically marked places (one, 30 feet long, in the court of the Palace of Versailles; the next day, one in front of the Eiffel Tower and another in front of the Louvre; the third, one in each European capital) One wonders how honest the painter was. So much to be said about him, how much could be accurate? Perhaps all of it. Perhaps none. He crafted himself, to be, among other things, mysterious. At one point, I thought I understood him, but, like Einstein, very few people truly understand Dali. Dread, though. Terror. He crafted a world made of terror, and played in it, found calm in it, and conquered it. He was a master of the irrational: an intentional absurdist, who fascinates me. This is what we have for today, we’ll write more about him later.